


Grey Lips, An Apology, and a Dream

by jaythewriter



Series: Misplaced Attachments [5]
Category: Marble Hornets
Genre: Gen, just go with me on this one okay, yes you saw that right masky and tim as two different people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:31:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1233427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaythewriter/pseuds/jaythewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim has a dream that seems different from the rest of his nightmares and meets someone there that looks eerily familiar.</p><p>Part of the Misplaced Attachments series.  Takes place sometime between Chapters 18 through 20.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grey Lips, An Apology, and a Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for reference to selfharm/skin-picking and blood.

You know you’re dreaming.

You must be. There is no other explanation for seeing a second you, a walking living reflection of yourself. The hallucinations were severe while they lasted, tearing apart reality and taking your sanity along for the ride. 

But not once did you face a copy of yourself.

Other Tim sits across from you, hunched over, elbows on his knees and eyes to the filthy carpeted floor. He doesn’t sit like a human being ought to, bent at the waist and head bowed to the point of his bones jutting out the back of his neck. 

You think you recognize this place, even in the darkness that covers every inch of your surroundings. Paper skids and crunches under your step, and overturned chairs lay within your path, nearly sending you toppling to the floor.

Then, as you get closer to the Other Tim and see the couch that he’s seated upon, it hits you: Brian’s house. His old dying house, broken and exhausted, a corpse in its own way.

You’re definitely dreaming. You haven’t been to this place in years, and you never wanted to come back, not even in your nightmares. Heart thudding quick within your ribs, you turn to leave, praying to the higher powers that you’ll be able to find the door-- hell, that the door will let you out at all.

“Please don’t go.”

Then you hear that creaky voice, cracking at the edges, full of dust, hatred, and blood.

(the hatred isn’t as strong, doesn’t make you flinch and curl into yourself, terrified that such a feeling can exist in this world)

“Please.”

Ever so slowly, the exhausted creature unfolds, sitting up and for a split second, he almost looks like you from college, with a young face and a smaller form. But his hair hangs in his murky eyes, a dark curtain that covers the scratches upon his face.

Those scratches have to be from his own nails. They’ve gone black at the ends with dried blood. 

(you remember the scratches upon your face too, when you couldn’t find the mask in time)

“What do you want?” you ask, perhaps too sharply. He flinches, and hunches over again. It reminds you of a frightened hedgehog. Still, you can’t bring yourself to pity him. Not after all the hours and days he stole from you.

“...I want,” the Other Tim starts, his breath coming out in a wheeze. Smoke emits from his lips and hovers over his head, his own personal black cloud. “I want to say sorry. That’s what people do, right?”

You blink and fold your arms. The Other You frowns, chalky skin going the faintest red.

“They say sorry. When they regret something. Yes?”

Your folded arms fall to your side. That word runs circles around your brain; ‘sorry’? He’s sorry, after this many years of fighting, of running off in the middle of the night, legs controlled by another force entirely. 

“Why now? You’re a little bit late,” you say, annoyance prickling at the back of your brain. The Other Tim lets out a crackling laugh; it sounds too much like static.

“Because, I, I am a selfish... thing,” he confesses with a grey lipped smile. Color is starting to flee from his skin, leaving him as white as the mask that he forced upon your face when he took the reins. “If I say sorry, maybe you will stay before I go.”

“Where are you going?” you ask. He pushes off of the couch, knees nearly giving way in the process. Finding his balance, he stands tall, back arched and hair falling aside, revealing his full face. After only a few moments, he’s hardly recognizable as a human figure, let alone as a reflection of yourself. What once were brown eyes are black and hollow, and his skin is white all over now. 

“G-going away,” the creature utters through a tight throat. “Away.”

And down he goes. He doesn’t make a single sound when he hits the floor, and you meet him there, kneeling and pulling his head into your lap. You’re puzzled at first, wondering why you’re holding him, gentle, careful.

Then, it hits you, when you see the liquid trickling from his lips, not red enough to be blood, but it isn’t black enough to be ink either.

You pity him. You feel /bad/ for him, seeing him this broken after all this time, left in a corner at the back of your mind to rot when you grew strong enough to stifle his influence.

Looking at him is enough to tell you where ‘away’ is.

He stares up at you, breath stuttering in his chest. The apology is still there in his face, though you don’t think he truly understands the concept of regret. He’s not human enough, he can’t be.

(he understands fear, that much you’re sure of. it’s in the trembling of his hands and the wide eyes that refuse to tear away from yours.)

Then, you blink, and you’re back on the couch, jacket sliding off of you and hitting the ground. You sit up abruptly, clutching at thin air, like you expect him to be there.

Of course he isn’t, and of course you’re being silly because it was just a dream. Nothing more, nothing less. You’ve had thousands of meaningless dreams. This one isn’t any different.

(still, you’re lighter than before, and something is gone, you’re sure of it-- you don’t know what’s gone, but it is, and the world is off balance because of its loss.)


End file.
